


Underlying Mechanics

by ClassyBrainiac



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Tony has dadshock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassyBrainiac/pseuds/ClassyBrainiac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-one year old Tony Stark wasn't expecting an illegitimate ex-marine half-brother he never knew he had. He especially wasn't expecting said half-brother to leave two young boys on his mansion doorstep. This abrupt family thing is not a machine he knows how to operate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underlying Mechanics

The man first contacted Tony two days after the funeral.  Five days total since Howard and Maria Stark had been killed on impact in the car crash, and in those five days Tony had accepted ownership of Stark Industries, met with a few hundred of his father's associates, and attended a dozen press conferences involving his grief and the passing of his father and the future of the company, executing every move with relative grace. Not to mention he'd scored a rather brilliant (and hot) new intern named Patricia Potts (Pepper, she had insisted kindly, with a smile that was both warm and professional). Although, Tony suspected she wasn't going to go for what a dozen other extremely attractive interns had experienced from him—Pepper was too sharp, it seemed. And right now, that's what Tony needed. 

 

So, five days since. Less than a week. It was almost Christmas. And after everything that Tony had achieved in those five days, here he was: sitting at the bar in one of his his family's luxurious residencies in New York, closed off the media and pomp of the city, swilling 100-year-old scotch in his crystal glass like it was cheap whiskey. His tie was loosened, his hair was starting to slump from its stiffly gelled pose, and he was staring at a photo of his mother and father's wedding like a lovesick teenage girl (and Tony had met his share of those). He was a parentless, 21-year-old billionaire. The stuff of Hollywood. And Tony felt raw and tired and sick to his stomach.  

 

He was alone. 

 

Tony squinted at the framed picture, zeroing in on Howard Stark's face. His father was smiling devilishly, handsome and bold even at forty-six. He looked triumphant—but even at his wedding, he looked no happier than he did when he bought another smaller company or exercised a multi-million dollar stock. The thought made the nausea in Tony's stomach broil hot with anger, and he scowled. 

 

"Cheers, you son of a bitch," Tony deadpanned, before upending the glass of scotch into his mouth. 

 

The landline rang. 

 

Tony choked; that was a top-priority secure number. It didn't get telemarketers or machine calls or... _any_ calls. It was a backup line in case of emergency. _Extreme_ emergency. _There’s a terrorist in my living room_ kind of emergency. It was easier to call the _President_ than it was to call a Stark. 

 

The phone rang again. 

 

Thinking _reporters_ and _media_ and _news_ and about the hot anger still boiling in his stomach, Tony snatched for the phone. "Okay, listen," he snarled into the receiver without waiting for a greeting. "I'm not doing an interview, so you can f—" 

 

"I'm not with the press, Tony." The man's voice cut right through Tony's words. _Liar_ , Tony instinctively guessed, but played along. 

 

"Fine. Then what do you want?" 

 

"My name's John Winchester. It's, um..." A thin pause. "It's hard to explain." 

 

"Then explain it fast," Tony snapped. 

 

"I don't think—" 

 

"Okay, listen," Tony repeated, irritated. "The only reason we're still talking is because I want to know how the hell you got on this line. So if you're going to ramble all day—"

 

"Howard Stark was my father." 

 

Tony stopped. He felt like his lungs were flattening back against his ribcage. "Like hell," he croaked tightly. "You're lying." 

 

"I'm not," the man replied. He sounded comically, _believably_ sincere. "My name's John Winchester, but before I was adopted it was John Sta—" 

 

"Shut up," Tony rasped, heart beating too fast. "You—" the words caught like glue in his throat and he slammed the phone back into the cradle. 

 

...because fuck if this hadn't occurred to him before. 

 

Especially recently (as in the last five days) he'd been wondering. His father had gotten married at forty-six. His mother had been twenty-seven. The odds that Howard—who wasn't exactly religious—had made a mistake, had gotten some secretary pregnant—

 

 _No_. Tony shook his head violently. _Jeez. No._ If—and that was a _huge_ if—Tony had a freaking _sibling_ , he would know. No matter how stuck up or selfish or ashamed his dad would had been, he would have told Tony about it, at _least_. 

 

...right? 

 

—•—•—

 

Tony's in Los Angeles two days later, finalizing plans for the Maria Stark Charity Foundation on his own when the landline rings. It's another one of those high-security phones, exactly the same as the one in New York except for a different number, and Tony's stomach turns as he picks it up. 

 

"Hello?" He says this time, and he's not disappointed. 

 

"Tony. It's John Winchester." 

 

"Hey, John," Tony replies, pleased that his voice is stronger than he feels. Probably has something to do with the fact that he's more sober. "How'd you get on this line again?" 

 

"It doesn't matter." 

 

"Sure," Tony lies. "So. You were adopted." What the hell is he doing?

 

"Yes," John says, and Tony thinks he can detect a faint noise in the background, like paper being shuffled. "And...Howard Stark is my biological father." He pauses here, but when Tony doesn't say anything he continues. "I'd prefer it if we could discuss this in person—"

 

"Oh, no-ho-ho, Johnny-boy," Tony interrupts, his brain still assembling the pieces of the weird-ass puzzle this guy is making for him. "I'm a high-profile rich kid, remember? Meeting you in a presumably isolated location? Alone? You probably want to kill me or something." Belatedly, Tony double-checks that he's alone.  

 

"No, no, I—I have proof." John's voice is way too earnest and Tony's not stupid. He did some extensive (and probably illegal) web searches for John Winchester. He mainly stuck to CIA and FBI databases because whoever this guy is, he's got to be one seriously high profile criminal to be able to access two of Tony's secure landlines. Somehow, the searches turned up nothing. John Winchester had never done anything to warrant at least national media recognition, and he could hack a multi-firewall Stark phone? Maybe it was a fake name. "Please,"John was saying. "If you would just meet me, I can prove it to you." 

 

Tony paused. Then he promptly told John Winchester where he could stick his proof and hung up. 

 

His hands shook when he typed the final email to the lady he'd picked to run the Maria Stark Charity Foundation. Maybe he wasn't as sober as he thought. 

 

—•—•—

 

The next few days, Tony double checked all at-large criminals in the country with the brains to do what this John guy was doing. Amazingly, none of them had any beef with Stark Industries. None of them were even prior employees, which sent up a red flag in the back of Tony’s head about the company’s recruitment policy.

 

Tony sat back and ran his hands through his hair. It had been four days since the second phone call. 

 

His LA landline started ringing again. 

 

Tony closed his eyes. Listened to the phone ring once, twice, three times. Midway through the fourth ring, Tony scooped it up without ceremony and said, "when do you want to meet?"

 

—•—•—

 

Tony insisted that John come to him, and John dug his heels in for a while before relenting. He said he could make it to LA by New Year's Eve and Tony agreed. He dismissed the entire staff for that day, armed all the security systems, even set up his prototype AI; he hadn't named it yet, but he'd get to that later. Maybe he'd name it after Batman's butler.  

 

On December 31st, fourteen days after his mother and father had died, Tony sat at the bar and waited, trying not to eye the scotch. 

 

At 5:21 PM, the pleasant male voice of the AI informed him that a 1967 Chevrolet Impala had parked at the entrance. Tony peered at the security footage, watching as a man who looked to be in his late thirties ducked out of the car. Tony's mind was whirling: calculating age difference, his father's age at time of birth, his mother's age at time of birth, where his father had been thirty-odd years ago—

 

"Hello?" 

 

The voice from the phone. Yes, hello, I didn't hear you come in. Yes, hello, are you my brother? 

 

Time to find out. 

 

—•—•—

 

They sat at the bar. 

 

John Eric Winchester was thirty-seven years old. He was tall (taller than Tony) and solidly built. His dark hair was as unruly as Tony's but was showing the first hints of gray. His eyes were brown (like Tony's). 

 

He'd been adopted less than a week after his birth by Henry and Millicent Winchester of Normal, Illinois. His birth certificate stated his mother's name to be one Sarah Johnson, now deceased, and no father mentioned. When John was four, his adoptive father Henry abandoned him and his adopted mother without warning, forcing the two of them  to move to Lawrence, Kansas to stay with Millicent's family. That's where he grew up. He'd joined the Marines after high school and had fought in the final throes of Viet Nam. That, apparently, was his life. 

 

Tony's mouth was dry. He swallowed hard. 

 

"No father on the certificate?” His voice sounded rusty. “Where's your proof?" 

 

John slid a manilla folder across the Italian granite countertop. "Copied this from a database of some organization. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. Uh, SHIELD for short, I guess." 

 

"Sounds familiar," Tony lied nonchalantly. "How'd you get it?" 

 

The slight quirk of John's mouth was a punch in Tony's gut; in that moment, John looked startlingly like Howard. "I'm pretty good with machines. Software and firewalls too." 

 

Tony flipped it open. The file had obviously been photocopied. It was formatted like some old-timey FBI file: date of birth (correct), social security number (correct), height, eye color, hair color (all correct). Amid the information was Status: Active. 

 

"Wait," Tony said. "Was my dad a member? Of this SHIELD thing?" 

 

John just shrugged. 

 

Languages spoken: English, Latin, Spanish, French, Japanese, Korean. Tony wouldn't expect anything less. A picture of his father stared up at him; a younger, less troubled Howard, probably just after the war had ended. But where...

 

 _Family_ , it said in the file, followed by a very short list. 

 

Maria Collins Carbonell Stark, Spouse. 

DECEASED: 12-17-91

 

Illegitimate unnamed Stark, Son. 

DOB: 06-08-54

**SEE ATTACHED FILE**

 

Anthony Edward Stark, Son.

DOB: 05-29-70

 

"That..." Tony muttered. "That doesn't—"

 

"Read the next page," said John quietly, and Tony flipped the paper with trembling fingers. 

 

John Eric Winchester

DOB: 06-08-54

 

Familial Status: illegitimate/legally adopted

Adoption Status: Domestic

Same-State: No

Military: Yes

Branch: Marines

Company: Echo

Biological Father: Howard Stark

DECEASED: 12-17-91

Biological Mother: Sarah Johnson

DECEASED: 07-14-54

 

Family: 

 

Mary D Campbell Winchester, Spouse. 

DECEASED: 11-08-83

 

Millicent B Burkhardt Winchester, Adopted Mother

DECEASED: 02-21-74

 

Henry W Winchester, Adopted Father

Status: Unknown

 

Anthony E Stark, Half-Brother, paternal

DOB: 05-29-70

 

\--------

 

It was all on paper. 

 

Tony didn't know what he was feeling. Something like being punched in the gut, while getting shot in the head, while jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. 

 

A whole lot of fucking pain. 

 

"I..." John was saying, not looking at Tony. "I wouldn't have come unless I was absolutely sure." 

 

For a moment, silence as John avoided Tony's gaze and Tony stared at nothing. 

 

Everything that his father had told him, about intelligence, mechanics, work ethics, his responsibility...and never once had he mentioned this. 

 

John was waiting for a response, so Tony obliged. 

 

"What do you want?" 

 

"What?" 

 

Tony raised his eyes minimally. John looked...almost startled. 

 

"What do you want?" He repeated in monotone. "Money? Is that why you've _just now found me?"_ Tony doesn't know where—or who—his anger is directed towards. John? His— _their_ father? Himself? 

 

"No!" John snaps, bristling. "I didn't even know we were related until a month ago! I never exactly had an interest in finding out the name of the bastard who dumped me at a hospital the day I was born!"

 

"So why did you?!" 

 

"For my boys!" 

 

The last word rings in the shocked silence with awful clarity. Tony's stomach bottoms out in pure confusion; how do you react to that? The words that try to exit his mouth are jumbled and numb.

 

"What—"

 

"You read the file," John grinds through his teeth. His words at low and pained. "My wife's dead. She died eight years ago." 

 

"And...and..." Tony feels like his brain is on a turntable. Skip, skip, skip. 

 

"And I can't find the thing that killed her with kids in the backseat."  

 

There's a few more beats of stunned silence as John's words sink in. Even for Tony, it takes a few seconds. 

 

"You mean—" 

 

"Dad?" 

 

Tony turns; John's head whips around, looking guilty, as if he's been caught doing something wrong. 

 

There's a kid standing in Tony's kitchen who hardly looks in his double digits, with close-cut brown hair, wide green eyes, and a smattering of stark freckles across his cheeks and nose. He looks vaguely malnourished, nearly swimming in too-big, second-hand clothes. He's staring at John with something like betrayal in his eyes. 

 

"Dean," John snaps, abruptly cold and impassive, "I told you to wait in the car." 

 

The kid— _Dean_ —averts his eyes and digs the toe of his worn sneaker into Tony's polished marble floor. "Yessir," he mumbles. John stalks over to his son and grips his shoulder. Tony can only watch this display and gape at the familiarity of it—when he was in Dean's shoes, except they were brand new and polished. 

 

"You know why I'm doing this," he deadpans to the boy. "I need to find the monster that killed your mother." 

 

Dean nods, eyes glued to his shoes. 

 

"Mr. Stark is going to take care of you until I do that. Do you understand?" 

 

Dean is still for a moment, like a statue. Then, he nods again, this time meeting his father's eyes. 

 

"Good." John releases his grip. "Go get your brother." 

 

Just as Dean has walked—no, practically marched—out of the door, John finally looks at Tony. Gone is the pleading, earnest stranger. Replacing him is a much easier reality—a ghost of Howard, detached and unfeeling, caring about nothing but the work in front of him. 

 

"I love my boys," he says to Tony, who nods woodenly, not attempting to shake the feeling that John is trying to convince himself. "But I need to do this." 

 

John starts _walking awa_ _y_ , and Tony wants to scream after him. _Stop, stop, don't dump your kids here like they're not supposed to be important—_

 

But he can't. He only watches, dumbstruck, as Dean returns, carefully tugging an even younger boy after him who looks half-asleep. John kneels in front of them and says something that only the kids can hear. Dean nods stiffly. The younger boy, his shaggy hair ruffled and messy, just yawns and rubs his eyes with one little fist.

 

Then John rises and leaves, shutting the door without looking back.

 

Tony's twenty-one. He's a billionaire. He has no parents, no close family, or friends. 

 

And now he has two small children—his _nephews_ —standing in his kitchen.  

 

It's Dean who cocks his head. "So," he says, eying Tony warily. "You got something to eat around here?" 


End file.
